A speaker wakes up, or perhaps never really slept, and lashes out at everything in a shabby room: the creaking chair, the dust, the yellow curtains, the sun, a broken generator. Each object gets a small burst of anger. But halfway through, the speaker stops and asks why any of it matters. The answer is that it doesn't, and yet these trivial things stick in the mind and won't let go.
The real feeling here is exhaustion. The "darkened bags" under the eyes, the final line "I need some sleep," and the way everything blurs into "noise" all suggest that the room isn't the true problem. The speaker is tired and short-tempered, and small annoyances have swollen out of proportion. The short, broken lines mimic a mind snapping from one irritation to the next. The mood is grumpy and weary, with a hint of self-awareness: the speaker knows the anger is silly, but can't switch it off.